Second Chances
by MangoBait
Summary: Both on the run. Both with more than they care to admit to lose. Both afraid for the future.
1. Salvation is for the Worthy

"Come on, come on!"

It was a breathy whisper, a hasty prayer to a God she doubted was listening. She had long turned her back on all that was holy, cast aside any chance at forsaken redemption with the great man upstairs. No, she had gotten herself into this situation. All on her own. She had come to terms with that years ago.

Granted, that didn't make living through it or dealing with the consequences any more tolerable.

Right now was no different.

It was supposed to be an easy job. Simple. In and out. At least, that's what she had been told. Repeatedly. Despite her questions and fears of the opposite. Nothing was easy. Not out here. But Tucker insisted that his information was good, from reputable sources. And, as always, Kurt agreed. Why wouldn't he? The two were attached at the hip. And, honestly, she hadn't a reason to doubt them, not after everything they had been through together. They needed the cash. They were desperate for it. Greed makes a blind man though. Madam Louis had taught her that.

Silly her for not remembering. That pesky gut instinct had been correct all along.

Bullets whipped past her, effectively snapping her back to the present. A small spruce tree to her right exploded, slivers of wood launched into the crisp spring air and slammed against her stolen mount's flank. Her thighs clamped around the beast, fingers clasped hunks of matted mane in a frantic attempt to maintain balance as the stallion careened away and sped down the opposing cliff face.

A curse was bit out between her clenched teeth. _Focus, you moron!_

"Cut her off!" came a guttural snarl from one of her attackers.

"I'm already cornered, what more do you want?" she muttered back between exhausted pants, knowing far too well that she wouldn't be receiving an answer. She already knew. They wanted her. Alive. Hogtied. Gagged. Bound to the back of a horse. Theirs to drag back to some high and mighty, honor bound sheriff. Or worse… The could be working for _him_. Maybe this had been a set up from the get-go. Maybe she was just trying to outrun the fate she knew she deserved.

As far as chances went… hers were slim, the margin narrow. And what was there was dwindling faster than Kurt could down a shot of whisky. She was so utterly screwed, of the royal variety.

She couldn't turn back. They were there. No way to flee to the woods. There too. She couldn't out-run them… and even if she did somehow magically make that happen with the piss-poor condition her thoroughbred was in, she knew they would be at the crosswords waiting for her regardless, barrels of their guns pointed at her chest and lassos waiting to drag her down. Aside from taking a flying fucking leap off the rock littered crag wall or hoping she would sprout wings and fly, there were no options. None.

Their luck had finally run out.

What little they had had to start with anyways.

Her heart was wild, untamed and running rampant behind her rib cage – an uneven chaotic pounding that was all but deafening to her ears, matching the beating of the hooves below her. The wind was biting, blinding. She could taste iron on her tongue, bitter and warm, given to her from a blow she had received before fleeing the station. A nagging wound in her calf whined with each shift of the horse, blood oozed from the gaping hole and drenched her trousers, pooled in her boot, caked against her skin. One of the lackeys had tried to swing at her as she mounted… a swift kick to his skull had fixed that but it seemed that his knife had made a lasting impression all the same.

She was worse for wear. And she knew damn well that she hadn't taken the brunt of it. Had Scarlett even escaped? Did Jacob make it to the train? Or had she been right about that dead body slumped against the tracks with a bullet in his brain?

Her gut twisted, her head swam. Now wasn't the time to worry about it. Right now she had to lose these idiots.

But, as discussed… she doubted that was going to happen.

Her palm rested against the pistol at her hip, mind racing to calculate how many bullets she had. Would it be enough? Was it even worth the try?

They were surrounding her; she kept catching glimpses of the riders between the trees and underbrush. She could hear their whoops and hollers, cruel cackles of bone chilling laughter. They would be on her before she knew it, before she could even prepare. With the plummeting drop to her left, she didn't stand a chance.

"Close in! She's trapped!"

 _No, no, no!_

 _There's always a way out. There has to be!_

 _Please!_

She pulled the handgun free, flicked her index finger around the trigger, and-

A cry ripped from her throat as a bullet grazed her shoulder. Her stallion lurched, reared, bucked, ears pulled back, hysterical, frightened… she tried to right herself, tried to get her bearings. Tried to steel her gloved hands onto the pommel of the saddle…

But it was useless.

Especially as a second shot tore through the meaty muscle of the stallion's neck.

The horse buckled, hunched, dropped.

And tossed her from her seat.

Right over the side of the cliff.

Her hands slammed out, finger tips clung to the edge of the wall; she gagged as her stomach connected with the jagged jarred rocks. Her teeth gritted as her feet scrambled, madly trying to find purchase as gravity threatened to throw her. She slid a few precious inches. Her nails clawed, bloodying themselves from where the leather of her gloves ripped apart.

A high-pitched whistle rebounded through the sky, the echoing of gunfire ceasing.

The sound of heavy boots slamming against the soft earth as a rider dismounted.

The crunch of dried leaves and broken twigs, louder, nearing her.

"Ah, there you are, Miss McClellin."

Her breath caught, her eyes widened a fraction of an inch. Her body stilled even as her grip weakened.

"You honestly didn't think you could run forever, did you?" A rumble of a chuckle, dusky, malicious. Terror inducing. Fear sped down her spine in response.

Her chin slowly tilted up, face paling as she met his gaze.

 _No._

He reached down, skeletal like fingers grasping her by the throat to hoist her up and away from the wall, left to dangle. "You knew I would always find you, right?" His white ice eyes were cold, his snarl piercing. "How long did you think you could hide?" Without breaking eye contact, he ordered, "Find the others," to his posse before returning his full attention to her. His hold tightened, _squeezed_.

She gagged. Lips parted to choke. Lungs burned. Vision blurred, faded, darkened.

And then she inhaled sweet oxygen, a cursed gift he allowed her, but just enough to clear the fog.

He intended to play, to make this last. Her punishment. Her toture.

"Oh, how I have longed for this day, dear pet of mine."

A wave of nausea flooded her system.

 _I can't go back with him. I can't._

She tried to kick, tried to swing. But she was small. Weak. Left useless from the chase. Broken from the injuries she sustained.

And his damn hand clamped down on her windpipe again.

"Don't try to fight, Miss McClellin. You're wasting your time. I know that. You know that. Even Pete knows that, and we all know how dumb he is."

Again, stars danced in front of her eyes… and again, he released.

"Are we going to behave now?" a coo, as if he was speaking to a child.

She glared up at him.

"Don't give me that look. It is so _very_ unattractive."

"Go… to hell," she seethed, jaw clenched.

"How boringly cliché of you. And here I thought you were cleverer than that." He leaned closer, the smell of his cologne made her stomach heave, sickly sweet lemon and a hint of sage. She had done everything in her power to forget that scent. "No one is coming for you, pet. Those men you were with? We will gun them down. Then you will be mine again and I can remind you of your manners."

His face morphed, changed so quickly she wasn't sure if she had imagined it. One second, he was grinning at her with that cocky, shit-eating smirk… the next was one of pure shock followed by agony.

And he dropped her.


	2. Damned and Downtrodden - A Flashback

"It's… too… tight…"

Her voice was strained, chest pinched. Nausea made her swallow hard between shallow breaths as sweat dotted her brow and made her lazy curls of chestnut tinted hair stick to the nape of her exposed neck. Her head swam with wave after wave of torrential lightheadedness. Blinking only made it worse; forced her to choose between vertigo drenched darkness or the much too bright candle-lit antechamber with its flickering dolled up faces. The room spun uncontrollably, and the floor lurched beneath her bare feet. The walls shivered and shook with each unsteady heartbeat.

She knew it was her imagination. That it was the sheer lack of breathable air. But that knowledge helped little to calm her rolling stomach. She didn't want to do this. Not again. Hacking off her left hand seemed preferable to… this.

She knew bloody well that it was more than just the constricting corset that made her want to vomit all over the freshly polished oak floor boards. She shouldn't be here. She shouldn't have to wear elegant silk of vibrant hues with her breasts thrust forward simply to attract the attention of the men in the foyer downstairs. Shouldn't have to pull her hair up and coerce it back with a hundred pricking pins to draw eyes to the graceful slope of her neck. Shouldn't have to be taken away to some shadowy din hole to be toyed with like someone's personal plaything, her rights stripped away so much that she wasn't even certain if she was a person anymore. There was a fine line between 'shouldn't' and 'have to', though. She had lost sight of it months ago. Everyone 'employed' here had.

"They don't pay us to breathe, Miss McClellin," came Madam Louis' bitter response, spoken through perfect, cherry colored lips. The woman reeked of lavender oil and honeysuckle, her mere presence enough to permeate the air around her with the heady scent. Under normal circumstances, it would not have been described as entirely unpleasant. At that moment, however, it was far too strong for her dizzied mind. _Dear lord, please go suffocate someone else._

Her eyes locked with another woman's. They shared a brief distressed expression. Both knew that this was unjust, immoral, perverse, and vile beyond anything imaginable. But… Both knew there was little they could do, and thus both were resigned to their cruel fate. It was utterly frightening how quickly the brain had become accustomed to living in hell. How they adjusted to preserve their own sanity. No one tried to fight it any more. No one ran. No one dared to. There were no bars, no shackles… but even a golden cage was still a cage at the end of the day.

The infernal cords were tugged on once more, forcing her to sharply exhale as the last of her pitiful oxygen supply was squeezed from her choked lungs. Her fingers curled around the back of an old chair, chipped nails dug half-moon divots into the intricately designed mahogany wood. Her face screwed up in discomfort, brows kit together and teeth clenched tight in her jaw. She took a few steps to balance herself and snapped her spine straight in a frantic attempt to properly align herself.

"Hold still."

What was the point? It was just more work to take off… _rip off_ … whatever the savage beast that bought her for the night wanted, later… The last man detested the corset, proved it so with the purple blue bruises he drunkenly left on her collarbone with his ringed knuckles when she couldn't rid herself of the garment fast enough for his _esteemed_ liking. Bruises they so diligently tried to cover up with layer upon layer of thick powder and sticky foundation. Their ache remained. A brutally realistic reminder. Even now.

Sometimes… sometimes she couldn't decide which she disliked more – being smothered or wishing she couldn't breathe at all simply because that signified an end.

"Your face will stick if you keep it like that." Another thin, barely veiled threat. A sharp reminder. A warning above all else. "Wrinkles won't get you work. You know what the Master says."

She briefly considered telling her handler that she cared little if she garnered the eye of the circling predators in the ball room. That perhaps Mathias could possibly consider instead taking a flying leap off the docks along the harbor. Preferably with a rather large stone tied to his leg. And a gag shoved down his throat. It would do the world a whole lot of good. At the very least, she would be happier. It would rid her of his ever-running mouth and give her with a few seconds of blessed quiet.

He wouldn't though. Obviously. But, envisioning it did help. Some.

Alas, and much to her frustration, he was safe. Tucked away deep within the confines of his lavish manor as half-dressed women draped themselves over his shoulders and constantly filled his never empty wine glass. It was all for show, to entertain the masses as he chummed up to the wealthy, deplorable elites. He flaunted his girls in their frills and bows, low scooping neck lines and petite cinched waists. He pawned them off like meat from a butcher, and then lived off their suffering, reaped in the riches while they warmed beds behind closed doors.

That's what this was all about after all, wasn't it? Money?

It was certainly what got her into this mess. Or, well, the lack thereof, followed by a desperate ploy to make more. Looking back now, she could see how silly she was, how obvious the tells had been, and how stupid she was for not seeing them from the start. He had been all smiles and cheeky bright-eyed grins. So persuasive. What was a few rounds of poker? Only a dollar or two. No harm in that. But the bets got larger as the drinks kept getting poured. Her 'winning' streak faltered. It didn't take much. A couple of bad hands; the cards that were in her favor at the beginning now plotted her gradual demise, but she was too drunk to give notice. Course, it wasn't until later that she found that the deck was stacked against her and the man she was playing had paid the dealer off.

 _Idiot._

"Stand up."

She did as she was told merely because there was no alternative. Madame Louis wasn't at fault. She was fulfilling her part as a pawn, a mentor of the damned and downtrodden. 'Bestowing the knowledge necessary to turn uncivilized wenches into proper tools' as Mathias would phrase it.

It was pathetic that she had fallen for his schemes, his sharp tongue, and cleverly worded wit.

What was even more frightening was how some of the girls believed him still. Even after everything.

Perhaps though, they knew better but acted the fool because resisting was so much worse.

The prospect was interrupted when a snug fitting gown, if it could be called as such with how little fabric it contained, was tugged over her head. The chiffon material billowed at her hips to accentuate them further; the lace and silk hugged her flat stomach and exposed the soft pale skin of her mid to upper back and shoulders. It was revealing. Scandalously so.

Mother would have fainted at the mere sight of the dress. Father would have fumed red with puffs of smoke billowing from his ears.

But… they weren't here. They weren't coming to save her either. No one even knew where she was.

A handkerchief skimmed along her neck and forehead, her handler tutting away as she dabbed at the stubborn beads of sweat that resided there. "Get yourself together. Tonight is one of the largest galas we have ever been gifted the opportunity to be part of. Do not ruin it for us with your nerve induced perspiration, Miss McClellin." The Madam's steely gaze surveyed the room, meeting the eyes of each and every woman present. "The same goes for all of you. If we do this right, we may even be rewarded, and we all know how wonderful that would be."

She exhaled through her pursed lips, refrained from rolling her eyes.

"Yes ma'am," they all replied in practiced unison.

She wanted to do it though, wreck the evening that is. She wanted to kick and scream, to beg Pete at the door to allow her to stay back, _just this once._ To cause a scene so the bastards downstairs would turn their nose up at her, thus preventing her from being coaxed away like a frightened lamb into the den of a hungry wolf. She wanted to dig her nails into their prying eyes so they couldn't gawk at her, to pull out hunks of their pomade hair as they leaned hungrily over her pinned body. To bash their pristine faces against the intricately designed headboard as they unzipped their trousers so hard that their nose broke and blood gushed down their chin.

She wanted to break their fingers, so they could never lay a hand on any of them ever again.

The sting of a sharp blade against her thigh stilled her warring thoughts.

Her little secret. Her salvation.

No, she couldn't fight back. Not right now. Not when she had worked so hard for this evening. She had to bide her time. Have patience. Everything was in place. Everything was ready. As she stood to follow the others with her chin tucked just so and her hands clasped together in front of her, she couldn't help the small barely visible smile that graced her painted lips.


	3. Several Disagreements and One Compromise

_Can a person lose this much blood and still be breathing?_

The woman was covered – her lose blouse, trousers, and the duster he had pulled over her once trembling shoulders were all saturated with crimson red. It soaked through the fine stitching of his riding gloves even, drenched the dyed black button down he wore, caked against the hardened leather saddle they were both seated in, and seeped into the intricate corded latticework on Gillie's reins wherever he touched them. The air was laced with the irony scent, so pungent and thick he couldn't help but worry if any of the predators in the woods surrounding them could smell it too. That is, if they hadn't sniffed out the trail of scarlet they were creating with each step already.

After the day they had so far, the last thing they needed was a pack of wolves on their trail.

 _Nothing like pouring fresh salt into a festering wound. Knowing our luck though…_

His focus swept back down to the woman. Her pale pink lips were parted, jaw slack, head lulled to the side. He watched the gradual rise and fall of her chest. Frail, but still there. Barely.

It was something.

"Arthur-" Micah started, the buffoon of a man prepping for another round of needless badgering.

"If there is a single wise bone in that ignorant body of yours, Micah Bell, you will shut your darned mouth before I do it for you," Arthur warned, tone more than implying how exasperated he was with the man's incessant prattling. How Dutch managed to put up with it day in and day out, he surely would never come to comprehend. Micah was about as intelligent as a newborn babe… just about as ugly too.

Arthur shifted in the slightest, repositioning the woman in the saddle between his arms. She was light but her sheer inability to sit on her own was becoming increasingly problematic. She slouched precariously against his chest. Each bounce made her limp body jostle, forced his muscles to tense in order to keep hold of her. One of his arms was tucked around her middle, palm splayed against the gaping wound that marred her lower abdomen. He had to stem the flow of blood, hold some realm of pressure even if the action seemed possibly fruitless in nature. He had been half-tempted to hogtie her like he would a buck but thought better of it given her condition. She'd bleed out if he was acted too brashly. His gaze snapped to the gravel laden road ahead. How far away was camp? Another bend or two? Would they make it?

Or would he be forced to end Micah's pitiful existence before then?

He was beginning to wonder if that would be a good or bad thing. It would certainly brighten his mood.

The man in question scoffed, a splutter of a sound somewhere between the huff of a lame donkey hee-hawing in the field and the croak of an overly large toad choking on a fly. "I'm simply saying that perhaps taking the woman we know nothing about, that we found dangling from the hand of a very nasty lookin' fella for god-knows what reason, back to camp, might, oh I dunno, _not_ be the best idea?"

"Right, course. Because you have been a fountain of _great_ ideas. Foolish of me, I must have forgotten. I apologize." He tried his damndest to keep the snark from his voice, but he knew he failed on that front. It wasn't like it was a much of a secret how he felt 'bout the man. "But, ya know what, while we are on that topic of you having swell ideas?," he added. "I was having a real dull day before you, Bell. So, allow me the pleasure of thanking you kindly for giving me the opportunity to shoot up half the town of Strawberry. I am so very relieved that you managed to get your little treasures - a piss-poor excuse of a revolver and a half-jammed rifle that cannot aim straight. Completely worth it. I can see why you wanted them back," sarcasm oozed around each and every word.

"I got a bit wild, alright?"

Arthur barked out a stern laugh, jaw setting as his crisp blue eyes careened back to glare daggers at him. " _You_ , 'a bit' wild? Who the hell makes a house call in the middle of a shootout A shootout, mind you, that likely had no sense occurring in the first place."

Micah glowered in return, lips curling into a sneer to reveal his chipped, yellowed teeth. "Ain't much I care for more than those guns."

"That much is clear!"

"They were going to let me hang, Arthur."

"I'm starting to wish _I_ had. Here we are though." His grip tightened on the reins, hoping that in doing so he would still his fist from connecting with the chin of the man behind him. "I'm not the only one you owe neither."

Micah muttered something incomprehensible under his breath. "Yes, you will all be thanked profusely, I assure you," he snidely replied, none too gratuitously in the least.

Arthur shook his head as they took a left curve in the path. "You're lucky Dutch has your back, for some unknown reason."

"Oh, like you ain't one to talk! Sure, I may have gotten a little carried away but least I didn't go rushing off, mucking in business I had no right mucking with," he gave a pointed look to the woman once more.

"And what In God's name would you rather I did?" Arthur snapped. "You can't tell me that we should have rode by and let him have his way with her."

Micah nodded vigorously, "Yes! Yes, that's exactly what I think we should have done. We have enough trouble as is. We didn't even kill the fella; him and his goons got away. What if he comes looking for us next?"

"Don't get me started, lest you need me to remind you about your intelligent, wisdom driven decision to go after the ferryboat in Blackwater? Last I checked, we have a whole lot of Pinkertons after us because of that mishap."

Micah's lips parted with a reply on his tongue, one Arthur was certain would give him one hell of a migraine if he allowed the man the opportunity to voice it. Thankfully, he was granted mercy as Bill hollered from his position alongside the road, "Who goes there?"

"It's just us, you blind moron," Arthur greeted. "You do know they sell glasses at the general store in Valentine, don't you? Get some, Bill."

Bill grunted and waved a hand dismissively as the duo entered. "Welcome home too, you foul bastard. Everyone was wondering when you'd show up." Then he offered a curt head nod to Micah. "Bell."

 _Home._ Arthur supposed that's what Horseshoe Overlook had become during the past month _._ After being on the run for the better part of the spring, it felt good to have somewhere to settle, somewhere to set up for the night that felt safe and secure.

Far away from the O'Driscolls and one Leviticus Cornwall.

The woods gave way to a humble clearing, tucked against the side of a cliff wall, and nestled within a spattering of elms and evergreens. It was just enough off the road that random passerby and stray city folk wouldn't see it if their eyes strayed while traveling, but close enough to Valentine that it didn't take more than a handful of minutes to get supplies. It was cozy and warm. And, it perpetually smelled of campfire smoke and gun powder, two scents that had swiftly become his favorite when coupled with the heavy odor of evergreen sap and cool refreshing morning air of the plains.

People were bustling back and forth between the small fires and the caravans that dotted the ridge, completing various tasks as they pulled fully into camp. Tillie was leaning over a pile of hay, bunching it together in her arms before hustling over to the horses to feed them. Pearson was frowning rather profusely at a steaming iron pot, spoon ladle in hand. Strauss was reading down his crooked nose, likely plotting the next batch of lenders he wanted Arthur to shake down. Abigale was trying to settle a very curious Jack who was practically bouncing on his feet with energy, too wound up and stir crazy for his own damned good. Javier was plucking a tune on his guitar, pausing now and then to try a new note or rhythm.

 _Home._

Sure, the scene was currently marred by the Reverend's drunken vocals. Nothing new there though.

"Art," Micah began. _Again_.

"Micah, I swear, if you do not shut the hell up, I will make true on my promise," Arthur retorted through gritted teeth. _If only looks could kill…_

The man huffed and dismounted, fingers clenched into tight white knuckled fists as he stalked towards Dutch's tent. _Sure, go on, go tattle to daddy._ _It's what you're good at, after all._

The woman in his arms stirred as she exhaled shakily before settling in once more. Her face was paler, appearing more in line with the puffy clouds above his head. The color change made her freckled cheeks look sunken and skeletal, made the dark circles under her eyes pop even more than they had a few moments prior. The purple-blue bruises that dotted her left temple and neck were duskier, melding into her porcelain like skin. Her bottom lip was split, the blood now dried in the curled jagged path it had forged along her jaw line before spilling into her tangled chestnut hued hair.

Even still, she looked fragile. Tender. Innocent. Her features were soft, all gentle curves with no hard edges. He reached up to brush a fleck of dirt off her cheek, his fingertips caressing along a barely visible faded scar. Unconsciously she leaned into his touch, body chasing after the warmth his calloused hand provided.

She was… _stunning_ , though he did not dare to admit that out loud.

Above all, she was an unknown, a possible enemy. They didn't know who they could trust out here. Not since Blackwater. And, hell, maybe even before that. Until proven otherwise, she was guilty. And his traitorous mind would do well to remember that.

He blinked, seeing once more the scene they had rode up on – her body dangling precariously over the edge of the canyon, the man gripping her by the throat with that shit-eating grin plastered to his cocky, egotistical face. She had tried to fight, tried to break free but her attempts had been futile. Undoubtedly, she had been battered, shot at, and run ragged, rendering her too weak to stand a chance on her own.

He could not just walk by and let them attack her, whoever she was. It didn't sit right.

But still, it did make him think. Why did they want her? What had she done? Who were they?

"Dear lord, what happened?" Susan all but cried, tempered shrill of a voice pulling him from his wayward thoughts. She was joined by Sadie and Karen, and all three women wore the same shared expression of distress.

"Here, let us help you," Karen offered, hands outstretching to assist. Sadie followed, already bracing her palms against the woman's hips as Arthur lowered her down.

"We ran into a little…. Trouble," Arthur hedged, unsure of how much to tell.

"I can see that mighty fine, Mister Morgan. I am looking for details," Susan bit back. Her gaze was fierce, deadly. He had seen her wield it against some of the gang members previously… and now squirmed under it himself.

"I get that, Miss Grimshaw, but until I share some words with Dutch, I ain't got much to say." He dismounted after, muscles pinched and tight from riding so long. "Any chance you ladies can get her patched up? I managed to stop the bleeding on her stomach wound but…." His voice trailed off.

It was a wonder they had made it this far with how damaged she was. If there was a God, damned son of a bitch that he was, Arthur was glad He had been watching their backs today.

Susan's lips tugged into a thin line as Sadie and Karen each took one of the woman's arms to hoist her up. "Dutch isn't going to like this," she cautioned. "But, we will do our best to help a fellow woman in need. Wouldn't sit right if we left her to perish."

Sadie nodded in agreement. "Can't let her suffer, can we now? She looks so sweet, wouldn't hurt a fly, I bet."

Miss Grimshaw gave a tentative, uncertain smile that didn't quite meet her eyes. "Don't trust too easily there, Miss Adler. Until we know better, best to keep such preconceptions out of mind."

The trio turned away, voices quieting as they moved out of ear shot. She'd be safe with them, in good hands. Cared for. He prayed that they were through the worst of it, that he had made it in time.

 _Hopefully, Dutch can see reason._

"Arthur."

He sighed, frustration making his shoulders slump and his back stiffen. _Here we go._

"He's over here, Dutch."

Arthur spun on his heels, spine straightening as his gaze darkened. "Oh, thank you so much, Mister Bell, for bringing good ol' pops on over to me," he snarled.

"One of us has to be thinkin' straight, Arthur," Micah quipped, arms crossed, nose tipped up with something akin to arrogance. "Thinking bout what's best for the gang."

"Spare me the speech. You're nothing but a goddamn parasite, spoiling the view for the rest of us. Go do what you do best and find a skirt to hide under."

Micah took a step forward, a menacing glint in his eyes.

"Now, now," Dutch hushed, shoving his hands into his red velvet lined pockets to retrieve a fancy looking cigar and professionally crafted engraved silver lighter. Where and how Dutch always managed to procure such items was beyond Arthur's understanding. "You know I hate it something mighty when you two are at odds. Let's discuss this like civilized people. That's what we are, isn't it? Civilized?"

The men stood a breath apart, chests puffed. Arthur briefly envisioned his fingers curling around the oaf's throat, squeezing just enough to see his pupils constrict into pinpoints. Judging by the way one of Micah's veins popped and throbbed, he was likely having similar thoughts.

Dutch continued after taking a drag or two. "At the very least, we are family. And, sure, disagreements happen in families, but our strength comes from resolving them. So, how's about we do that then? Resolve this issue? _Calmly_." He rested a hand on Arthur's arm, sternly, a reminder of who was in charge. "Boy?"

Arthur hesitated. His mind knew who his personal will belonged to. His heart was in vast disagreement, however. Micah was a stain on the gang, a pest, a leech. He put them at risk time and time again, pulled stunts no one else could get away with. Someone needed to put the man in his place.

"Arthur," a threat this time.

 _Micah shouldn't be allowed to exist. He's the reason we are here. He's the reason we have live in constant secrecy._

But Arthur respected Dutch. The man had saved him from a life of living on the streets, gave him a home, gave him a family. He owed the man everything.

He didn't want to jeopardize that for his own selfish grudge.

Micah would ruin his life on his own eventually. He didn't need Arthur's help to do that.

So, Arthur withdrew. "Whatever you say, Dutch," he conceded.

"Good." Dutch huffed, hand raising to brush debris from his patterned vest. "Now. Back to the business at hand. Micah says you've brought a stranger into camp?"

 _Remain calm._ "Yes. Did Micah happen to mention the state said stranger is in?"

Dutch bobbed his head, "He did. But, that's beside the point. She's an outsider. An unknown. We can't just let random people into our hideout."

Arthur snorted. "You think she's with the Pinkertons or something?"

"You never know. They have eyes and ears everywhere, my son. You can't trust anyone."

"I'm not trusting her," Arthur defended, palm rubbing against the back of his neck in annoyance. "Let her rest up. Heal a little. Then we can figure out who she is, make a better decision then."

"Or she could be leading danger right to us," Micah argued. "She was being chased by a couple madmen. They could still be after her."

"My thoughts exactly, Micah. We also can't take in every stray lamb either. Arthur, see reason. We don't have enough provisions to feed another mouth," Dutch countered.

"I can think of a few we can cut if you want to balance the numbers," Arthur ground out.

Micah visibly bristled, scowl forming once more. _Good, he knows. Maybe he's not as dumb as I thought._

Dutch moved closer, hand clamping down to grasp Arthur's shoulder affectionately. "I do think it's quite a grand thing you did, saving another person. You set a good bar for the others to follow. But, honestly, we are barely scrapping by as is here. And we need to keep a low profile. You understand that, don't you? We can't put the whole family at risk for one woman. I let Kieran in, despite my better judgement. So far that has paid off, but he has skills he can bring to the table."

"She might."

"Might doesn't make a strong debate for your cause, dear boy."

"Face it, Arthur," Micah interjected. "You've lost."

"Now, gentlemen. Perhaps I can be of assistance?"

Arthur refrained from cursing out loud as Josiah Trelawny stepped forward, pocket watch swaying from a golden link chain attached to the embroidered handkerchief tucked into his breast pocket. _Oh boy, just what we needed. Aren't you supposed to be hunting down Sean right now? Go pester someone else._ A conman and magician to his core, Trelawny only ever had one person's interest at heart: his own. He may appear finally dressed in his three-piece suit and fancy top hat, but he was a viper underneath it all.

"You can vouch for this woman?" Dutch questioned, one bushy brow arched as his attention swiveled to stare at the snake.

"I can indeed. She runs with the Manzanita Chance gang west of Blackwater. Not sure if you've heard of them, they mostly work more discrete jobs. They've been doing favors for me for some time now."

Dutch rolled back on his heels, eyes widening a fraction of an inch. "You've piqued my interested, Mister Trelawny. You do only seem to hire the best." _Is the extra coating of honeyed praise really necessary?_

"I am pleased to hear that, fine sir. Truly, she would be a bloody good asset to your…" he waved his hands, as if the action would help him find the right word. " _Posse_. She is an adapt pickpocket and lock breaker, knows her way around a horse like a fine rancher, and can smooth talk her way into almost any situation. I once saw her convince the stable hand in Tumbleweed that he would actually benefit from letting her people take his horses off his hands. Course, he is dirt poor and looking quite the fool now but that's of no consequence to me."

Dutch chuckled. "We could use more of that clever wit round here. Arthur, bless his soul, is no conversationalist."

Arthur sniffed, eyes rolling. "Rub it in, why don't ya?"

"Oh, its just a bit of honesty, my boy," Dutch laughed before his tone turned serious once more as his gaze fixed on Josiah. "Think she will run to the lawmen once she wakes? I would love to have a few words with her, but I cannot risk my people if she is simply going to flee for Valentine at the first chance she gets."

Trelawny hummed. "Mmmm, I think not. My understanding, that is if my source is reliable which it usually is, is that she was on the run prior to joining the Chance. Locked up even. They offered her protection in trade for her… _compliance_ and _cooperation_. I believe that, if you were to offer the same deal, she will work with you."

Arthur's brows knit together, hands shoving into his pockets. The man on the canyon wall had been no peace keeper, and that was certainly no civil justice he had been upholding. "On the run from what?"

"I've no clue," he shrugged, uncaring for the woman's personal plight. "It matters little. She has no one to turn to now. If we can remain a beacon of hope for her, she will do what we need."

Dutch cocked his head to the left and called over his shoulder, "Hosea. I know you've been eavesdropping this whole time, what are your thoughts on the matter?"

Hosea gave a sheepish grin from his position near one of the fires. The flames made the wrinkles in his handsome face appear thicker than they were but that boyish light in his eyes never seemed to fade. His blue vest was unbuttoned to reveal a powder white shirt underneath that was matted with dust and dirt. "If she can open the bonds box we lifted from the train heist, I say she's in. I can't move those bonds if I can't get the damned box open. No moved bonds means no cash for us."

"Right you are," Dutch agreed. "Well," his hands clasped together in front of him, "Sounds like we have a plan then."

"You can't be serious," Micah hissed under his breath, voice much too quiet for Dutch to hear. But, Arthur caught it and he couldn't help but give the man a 'ha, I win' expression.

"Just gotta wait for her to wake up."


	4. A Deal Struck

_Where am I?_

She remembered little, bits and pieces of fragmented memory filtered through a foggy glass. It was as if someone had gone through and cruelly offered her pieces of the puzzle instead of the whole thing. She could see the side of the building but not enough to realize it was a barn instead of a home, for example. More realistically, she knew she had traveled on horseback made evident by the clip of the hooves against stone and dirt, but she didn't know where she had been brought to or by whom.

If she really tried, she remembered jostling back and forth. She remembered two men speaking, both sounding more irritated than either had any right to be. She remembered frenzied worried voices and a cool damp rag being laid upon her forehead.

Remembered the infuriating pleasant smell of evergreen and clean soap when a hand had been pressed against her cheek.

But then… nothing… blissful sleep, her body finally succumbing to the damage done to her, to the beating she had withstood. She had been too tired to fight it, too drained to stay awake any longer.

Now, however, she was groggily awake, and her mind was reeling with questions.

 _I must figure out where I am._

No ropes bit at her exposed wrists to create angry, puckered welts. No gag was forced in her mouth to prevent her from speaking or screaming for help. She was on a padded surface, soft and comfortable, with her head supported by a pillow. She was warm due to the quilt that had been draped over her by….

 _By who…?_

Was she surrounded by friend or foe?

Did she need to run? Flee? Would she be able to? Did she even have to?

Prisoners weren't often left unbound and cared for. That had to count for something, right?

Or was it just for show? A conniving ploy to catch her unawares gussied up to appear innocent and acquitted. A scheme to lull her into a serene calm right before the rug was ripped out from underneath of her?

Mathias would do that. It was not outside the realm of possibility. Nothing was with him. He was always one step ahead of her… made obvious by how he managed to track her down after all this time, so far from home.

All she could picture was tight gowns, greedy uncaring sneers, and disgusted remorse. Poorly lit rooms. Rustled linens. The taste of blood on her tongue.

Her heart lurched as terror simmered in her gut. No, she wouldn't go back there. She _couldn't_.

 _Okay, okay, you can do this. Take it slow. What can you hear?_

Muffled voices reached her ears – broken hushed dialogue she couldn't quite string together no matter how hard she strained to listen. The crack of a fire and the pop of embers on sap coated logs followed. Something sizzled on a heated pan, someone plucked at an instrument, the tune light and melodic. Almost familiar but she couldn't figure out from where. Gentle laughter bubbled from further out, childlike almost.

She inhaled slowly. The scent of wood smoke filled her nose paired with the spiced smell of meat and potato stew coupled with honeyed mead. Her stomach pinched with hunger, reminding her that she had not eaten since… since…

Was it still the same day? How much time had passed?

Her fingers twitched, chipped nails dug into the soft thin mattress beneath her. Her body ached but was not nearly as pain laden as she had assumed it would be. Flashes of memory flickered into her mind's eye – Mathias standing over her, his grip curled around her throat, a dagger in his arm… falling… white hot agony as her head connected with the rocky jagged face of the canyon wall.

Hands wrapping around her.

But who…? Who?! Who pulled her away from the cliff? Who brought her here?

"Oh! Someone retrieve Arthur. I think she's waking up," a woman explained, tone pitched with excitement.

She instantly recoiled from the voice, frightened by its proximity. Someone had been watching over, stationed to… guard her? Protect her? Or retain her? Her eyes flicked open, her gaze uncertain and fearful as she took in her surroundings.

Night had fallen at some point leaving the sky above littered with sparkling stars and a half full moon. Campfires dotted the ridge in a gentle golden glow. People sat around them, unrecognizable and unknown. A woman knelt beside her, face plastered with concern. Her brow was knit with worry as her summer green colored eyes widened. Lazy ringlets framed the woman's slender rosy-cheeked face.

Not Mathias.

 _She doesn't look like a savage killer neither._

She licked her dry lips. When she spoke her voice was harsh, cracking around the words due to hours without water, "Who are you?"

"It's okay, darling. We hear you've been through quite the ordeal. My name is Mary-Beth," a soothing palm clasped her arm. "You're safe here, I promise you that much."

Safe. It was such a flaky word spoken by mouths who didn't know its true meaning. No one was ever honestly safe. There was always a catch.

Her lips tugged into a thin line, her eyes narrowed. "Where am I?"

"Little ways out from Valentine, miss. We're in Horseshoe Overlook, it's our humble camp."

"Careful, Miss Gaskill. She doesn't need to know everything," a second woman warned as she approached, bowl of steaming stew and mug of ale in hand. "No offense. But, until we know if you are with us or against us, we can't take our chances." Leaning down she rested the meal upon the bed roll.

"Aww, look at the gal, Susan. She is shaking like a leaf. Least we can do is be a bit forthcoming with information," Mary-Beth argued.

"This ain't like one of your books, silly girl. Do not be fooled. She could be a wolf in sheep's clothing."

 _Lovely people. Just charming._ Though… she couldn't blame them. She knew she wouldn't feel any different if their roles were reversed. Hell, if she had to be frank, they had done more for her already than she would have done in their shoes.

Mary-Beth huffed out an exasperated sigh much to Susan's chagrin. "I'm just sayin' that maybe we shouldn't be treating her like the enemy."

"That's not for us to decide." Then, to her, "What's your name, dear?"

She swallowed her spoonful of stew, weighing her options. A pretty lie would be easier. But… if what this Mary-Beth said was true, that she was safe here… being honest would get her further. She didn't know the status of the Manzanita Chance posse. She didn't want to dwell on it, too afraid to uncover that those she held dearest were possibly dead. Until she knew what she was up against, it would be wiser to play along than to fib. "McClellin. Lillian McClellin."

Susan nodded, offering a smile in kind. "Pleased to meet you, Miss McClellin. I am sorry it is on such terms, but I do hope that we can come to an understanding."

"As do I, ma'am," she replied.

Heavy footfalls made all three women look up as a man neared them. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his trousers, navy shirt unbuttoned, and collar disheveled. He wore a wide brimmed hat that would have covered his eyes if she was standing up. But she wasn't, and instead she was hit by the startling blue hue that seemed to pop against the darkened sky above them.

And, as he knelt down to get a better look at her… she was met with the familiar aroma of soap and evergreen.

"You… You're the one who brought me here," she asked, though it was more of a statement than an inquiry. Her mind flashed to the last time she had smelled that combination, the scent filling her nose as a rough calloused hand grazed her cheek, the heat warming her chilled body. It had been unexpected, but somehow what she needed.

The gentle touch was in stark contrast with that man that stood before her now. He wasn't cold, but he did not seem to be the type to commit such a heartfelt gesture either. Perhaps she had been wrong?

He nodded, the action slow and deliberate, and clearly indicating how right she was. "Sure. I'm also the one who dragged you back up the side of the canyon too." His gaze swept over her, pausing shortly on the bandage that wrapped around her bicep, the gauze already bloodied from the wound underneath. "I apologize for not getting there quick enough."

She could still feel the burn of the bullet as it grazed her arm, the bite of the rocks digging into the skin of her stomach and thighs. She could still feel the way Mathia's grip bruised and squeezed at her throat. The events were a blur, but the sensations were raw and unbridled. No matter how hard she strained, her brain refused to develop a clear picture. Granted, she didn't care for a play by play… there was one thing for certain she _needed_ to know. The rest could wait. "What happened? To the man, I mean."

Arthur's face turned grim. "He got away. Micah managed to get him with a throwing knife, but we were too far away to catch up to him. It was a wonder we got to you before you fully fell."

A shudder of cold dread rippled down her spine. So, she wasn't safe after all. Mathias didn't have her now, but it was only a matter of time. Without her posse at her back, she couldn't help but feel exposed and vulnerable. She couldn't say she enjoyed the life she had been leading but the protection that was offered to her by the LeClerks far outweighed whatever burdens her conscious had to bare. If she was forced to go on her own… she wouldn't stand a chance.

"Charles and Lenny are out scoutin' though, miss," Mary-Beth said, giving her hand a kindly squeeze. "If he's out there, they'll find him. I assure you of that."

 _Doubt they'll turn up anything._

"In the meantime, I've got some questions for you," Arthur addressed, stern and direct. Though there was a mild tenderness in his eyes whenever he glanced in her general direction, it never touched his tongue. Was it for her benefit he remained neutral and distant? Or was it just who he was as a person? If so, why?

"Oh, come now, Arthur. She just woke up," Mary-Beth quipped.

Arthur grunted, cocking his head up to peer at the woman. "I don't make the rules. Dutch wants to know if we can trust her. Last I checked, we were running on borrowed time."

 _Dutch?_ Was he the leader then? Why did that sound so familiar? Where had she heard it before? Was it in conversation? Had she run any heists against him? Stolen from him? Had Jessica mentioned him? Or was he from before?

Then it clicked. Crystal clarity snapping into focus.

Her eyes widened a fraction of an inch, eyebrows rose. No, she had _seen_ that name before. Only once. In passing. So quick she had forgotten until now. It had been at the post office in Blackwater. The wanted posters littered the oak walls there, and she had taken to reading them whenever she was waiting for Tucker or Kurt to finish speaking with the man at the counter. One in particular had been added recently, and she remembered running her fingertips along the uneven edges. The blocky script was faded and damaged from the rain, but she could still make out the name carefully printed onto the yellowed parchment… DUTCH VAN DER LINDE: Wanted DEAD or ALIVE.

She should be scared. She should be trying to find a way to break out, to run to the authorities. Old Lillian would have too. But she died years ago, along with her morals, pride, and sense of decency.

In truth, she wasn't much better than the outlaws around her.

 _Which is a far more terrifying thought._

"-attest to that?" the tail end of Arthur's gruff question yanked her from her thoughts.

"Sorry?" She blinked dumbly up to him, brain scrambling to piece together what had been asked.

Susan scoffed in annoyance though Mary-Beth quickly consoled by saying, "Probably the blow she took to her head. There, dear. Take your time."

"We don't want to rush ya, ma'am. Miss Gaskill's right on that. You've been through enough." A second man stepped forward, having joined them a moment prior when she had been too wrapped up in her own mind to notice. While Arthur hadn't jogged her memory, this one certainly did. His face had been painted onto each wanted poster. His face was warm, smile friendly, but even she caught the slight tightness in the corners of his eyes, the tensing of his muscles through the crisp white shirt he wore. He was one to fear. Of course, she wouldn't ever assume differently for the leader of such a notorious gang.

"I could've handled this," Arthur commented dryly, those blue eyes of his turning icy cold.

Dutch patted Arthur's back and chuckled, an almost too bright laugh that sounded practiced if she listened real closely. "Oh, dear boy, I don't doubt that. I just wanted to meet the lady for myself. You're quite the beauty, if I may be so bold."

Arthur shook his head, hand rubbing at the back of his neck. "Flattery? Really, Dutch?"

Dutch, as if not hearing the man's words, continued, "We are just a cautious people, miss. You understand that, right? Course you do, you're smart, intelligent. Would have to be for Mr. Trelawny to take a liking to you." Her brows furrowed at that. Was Josiah an associate of the Van der Linde gang too? She shouldn't be surprised. He seemed to have his fingers in everything. "Ah, good. I was worried he was simply telling another tall tale of his. Fine man, that one, but," he leaned close enough for her to smell the cigar smoke on his breath, voice hushing as if he was sharing a secret just between the two of them, "Bit dramatic for my liking, if I'm being honest."

He pulled back, arms crossing in front of his scarlet colored vest. "Mr. Morgan is correct. We do have questions but, in truth, they can wait a moment. Above all, we have needs. _Our family_ has needs. Namely food, resources, ammo, provisions. The essentials." He waved a hand for another person to step forward. This time it was an older man, hair graying and face riddled with wrinkles. He seemed kind though, gentle. The warmth he imbued reached every facet of his expression and wasn't forced. He was genuine. "Such supplies cost money. Money, we don't currently have, unfortunately. However, we do have a means, simply no way to retrieve it. Hosea if you could please show the lady."

The man, Hosea, held out a wooden container with metal binding that glinted in the auburn flames from a nearby fire. It was intricate and complicated, sealed shut by a locking mechanism she hadn't seen before. Something was etched into the surface, unreadable from her distance. "This," Dutch tapped the container with his ring covered fingers, "Is a bonds box. We have been trying to get into it for the past few weeks but have made little progress."

"Arguably _none_ ," Arthur grunted.

Hosea cleared his throat. "Trelawny has spoken rather highly of you. We were hoping you might be able to do what we cannot," he clarified, gesturing for her to take the box.

She cradled it in her lap, thumb playing over the dial and accompanying lock. Pieces shifted as she tapped them, disappearing and folding in on one another. It was a puzzle, a complex one. At that moment she wasn't so sure she could pick it, but she knew better than to tell them that. She was more interested in what she would get in return.

As if able to read her thoughts, Dutch added, "We can provide you our protection. It has come to my understanding that you may have some bad people trying to find you. We don't want that any more than you do." _Unless it were to benefits you_ , her mind quietly cut in. "We won't ask for details as long as you don't ask the same of us. All we want is to care for our loved ones," his hand swept to the people behind them. They were all still seated around their fires, heads bowed in conversation, attention not turned towards the arrangement being made off to the side.

A young boy sprinted between two groups, his childlike laughter echoing off the willows and elms. The man with the guitar had finished putting together his song and was strumming it casually, a few voices softly singing along to the words. Another was collecting empty bowls from supper into a large container to wash later. Two women were playing dominos on an overturned crate.

Horses knickered in a makeshift pasture, well cared for and obviously loved.

Mary-Beth gave her hand another squeeze. The woman's heartfelt voice drew her in, "It'd be a joy to have another gal in the group, if I might add."

Susan grumbled under her breath, "Only if she can do her fair share of the work."

"I'm sure she will be able to, Miss Grimshaw," Hosea commented.

"Once she has recovered," Arthur corrected, weight shifting as his gaze moved back to her.

There it was again, the barely detectable warmth tucked against his irises, almost so delicate she missed it entirely.

For a bunch of 'outlaws' and 'criminals', the Van der Linde gang looked rather caring and considerate to her. It wouldn't be the last time lawmen and authority figures skewed the truth to meet their narrative. She had witnessed that first hand when she had escaped from Mathias. It was startling how quickly he was able to twist the truth to benefit his own greed.

Perhaps they were no different.

What Dutch was asking was reasonable. That is, if it were to be believed. And, regardless, she was more or less out of options. She wouldn't last longer than a week on her own. She was capable, but Mathias had eyes and ears everywhere. If Dutch was offering her safety, as fragile as it was, among his people, she would be a fool to turn it down.

Was she trading one nest of vipers for another? Yes. Did she care? Hell no.

"You, Mister Dutch, have yourself a deal," she agreed, grasping his hand to give it a firm shake.


End file.
